The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [57]
Galina took a deep breath, looking down at her fine hands, then back at Stevie. ‘The other influence in her life was a positive one, her godfather, Kirril Marijinski. He is a famous conductor but I think he lives in Zurich now. Something happened, no one really knows, but Kirril left Russia a few years ago and swore he would never return. It’s a great pity.’
Stevie nodded. Irina had mentioned Marijinski. She leaned forward in her chair. ‘Did Anya have any troubles with her parents? Any worries at all?’
Galina shook her head. ‘She was a fortunate daughter to fortunate parents, true, Vadim? They are a close family. They enjoy each other’s company. I don’t know of any problems.’
Vadim was leafing through the music sheets on the stand, his mind elsewhere. ‘Except the modelling thing,’ he said suddenly. ‘My parents weren’t very happy about that.’
‘But what sensible parent would be?’ Galina smiled but she had tears in her eyes. ‘I only hope her dream hasn’t taken her to dark places.’
Vadim unhooked the arm of the metronome and let it swing freely, side to side on its spring. Its ticking kept perfect time for the lament, that saddest of arias, that vibrated on every surface, in every heart, in that tiny music room.
Anya.
There was a pin-board on the wall, a lesson timetable. Galina had her students’ names written in the spaces, one every hour aside from a lunch break at one. Anya Kozkov had two lessons a week, one at three in the afternoon, another at four-thirty. Petra was up there as well. Galina seemed very much in demand.
‘You’ve heard nothing from her since?’ Stevie asked softly.
Galina shook her head in deep regret.
Vadim put his hand on Galina’s shoulder. ‘Is Masha here?’
‘In her room, Vadim.’
There was a second door in Galina’s music room. Vadim knocked.
A voice answered, ‘Da?
’ ‘Masha, eta Vadim.
’ Vadim opened the door and stepped into a room even smaller than the first, a virtual closet, with just enough room to raise an elbow and slide a bow across the bridge of a violin. A minute table stood in the middle—it must have been a side table in a former life—and two folding chairs were drawn up to it.
A tiny woman stood beaming as they walked in. ‘Kak deela, Vadim? ’
‘Not too bad, thank you, Masha. This is Stevie Duveen, a friend from Switzerland. Stevie, Masha Ivanovna Osipova.’ Masha and Stevie shook hands.
Stevie was usually by far the smallest at any meeting between adults, but Masha was even smaller. Her hand was like a winter sparrow, all warmth and fragile bones. She wore a red jumper and huge glasses that hung from a gold chain around her neck. Like Galina, she was in her mid-forties but her hair was already iron grey—thick, cut like a steel bowl. But her eyes were a clear sky blue, her skin fine and young.
‘You’re looking for Anya.’ Those limpid eyes were on Stevie now.
For Masha, like Galina, small talk was talk wasted. But Masha had none of the abruptness that people mistake for honesty. Both women in fact, it struck Stevie, were civilised and gentle; working away in their buried cells, they were women in full possession of their human credentials.
‘I never actually saw Anya,’ Masha continued. ‘Of course, I heard her. She came for her violin lessons next door. I knew certainly that it was Anya because there is a lesson schedule in Galina’s room. But I would have been able to tell anyway. The notes from her violin were different from all the others. They had a longing in them, the kind that is full of hope and unfocused desire. Like the heart of a young girl.’ She sat back down, gesturing to the seat opposite her.
‘I told Masha about Anya,’ murmured Vadim, as he pulled out the second chair for Stevie. ‘She was recording my story and it had just happened. I could think of nothing else. I know I wasn’t supposed to speak to anyone but Masha doesn’t know my sister. It was a comfort to tell someone what had happened, how worried I am.’
Stevie turned her head to look into the young man’s tortured face. ‘It doesn’t matter, Vadim. Sorrow is as hard to keep to yourself as happiness. Better